Legally Addicted

chapter Six



Over the next week, things settled down to an easier routine in the office. Georgia surprised herself by how quickly she got used to working out in the open office again, and Brad surprised her by often dropping past her desk to ask her professional opinion on various legal issues. His visits made it clear to everyone that he regarded her as an equal and she was to be treated with the same deference as the other partners.

She still reacted physically whenever he was close, but it was only a matter of time, she decided, before the weak knees, swirling stomach and hot flushes subsided. Seeing Brad with someone else at the strategy weekend would help with that. It would be hard but she would only have to face the awkwardness of that once and then it would be over. It also helped that the Walsh matter was giving her the run-around and therefore plenty to think about that didn’t involve Brad.

With Brad unable to help her, she had almost done enough research into Douglas Walsh’s affairs to qualify for a private investigator’s badge. When searches of property and company registers turned up nothing, she had resorted to web searches and trawling social media sites, but the man was either a complete technophobe or seriously publicity shy. If she didn’t find something soon, she was going to have to consider the possibility that she might have to hire a PI for real.

‘Urggh.’

‘Black file?’

Georgia almost fell out of her chair as a hand rested on her shoulder. She knew that touch, irrevocably impressed into her memory. A frisson of something pleasantly electric shot across her shoulder blade and straight down her spine.

‘Anything I can help with?’

‘Not with this one I’m afraid, Brad. I’m still stuck on the Walsh file, trying to track Douglas’s assets.’

She swivelled around in her seat, forcing Brad to remove his hand. She looked up to find his face twisted in a genuinely apologetic expression. He leaned back against a large filing cabinet, crossing one arm over the other, prevented from crossing both by a rolled up magazine he held in his other hand.

‘I really wish there was some way I could help without compromising solicitor-client privilege, but I know you’ll crack it in the end. Douglas can be a prick. I had to act on his instructions, but I always thought Ruby deserved something.’

Brad’s admission shifted something inside her, as the information that he cared what happened to Ruby sank in.

‘I’m sorry you lost your client, by the way.’

She steeled herself for some form of rebuke or remonstration for her interference, but it never came. Instead, Brad raised his free palm in the air.

‘C’est la vie. It was a blow to the bottom line, unfortunately. But we’ll bounce back.’

She nodded. It was good to confirm that there really were no hard feelings over the Walsh matter. She hadn’t been brave enough to raise it before, but she was beginning to realise that Brad really was a fairly sanguine character. It took quite a lot to wind him up.

Outside the bedroom.

Georgia, cut it out.

She dragged her attention back to the present. The sooner she saw Brad with someone else the better.

‘I’m at the stage where I might have to hire a professional investigator.’

‘Not a bad idea to call in the professionals in a case like this, actually. I’ve had to do that sometimes. I can give you some names if you like.’

‘Thanks.’

Brad unrolled the magazine he was holding and handed it to her.

‘Snapped by the Paps?’

She quirked an eyebrow.

‘I know, I know, but I don’t read this rag for personal entertainment. With my client list, it pays to stay ahead of the game. Most of it is overblown of course, but over the years I’ve found that where there is smoke, there may not be fire but usually there is something at least smouldering.’

Smouldering.

His eyes gleamed a little brighter as he said the word. Was that meant as a double entendre? It wasn’t the first time he had passed by her desk to talk shop only to end up making some innocent and yet simultaneously suggestive remark.

‘And what is smouldering at the moment, do you think?’ she said, staring him straight in the eye, squarely meeting his cheek with a good dose of her own.

‘Apart from the usual?’

There it was again.

His eyes flashed at her.

It was bad enough having him around, without his flirting, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. If she brought it up, he would probably only deny it, making out she was the one who still had a bit of a thing for him.

Which, to a certain extent, she did.

Damn it.

‘Check out page forty-two.’

Grateful to have a reason to look away, she flicked through the pages until she found the image Brad was referring to.

She read the caption below the photo, ‘“Buckland snapped out with mystery woman”.’

‘This could be it, Georgia. If I were a betting man I’d say we’ll see Cherie soon. Until now, Buckland’s philandering has never made the media, but Cherie isn’t going to like this.’

‘I’ll make sure I’m up to speed with the file.’

‘Good. So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow up the coast then.’

‘Up the coast?’

‘At the strategy meeting.’

The idea of the overnight strategy meeting had filled Georgia with dread ever since Brad had mentioned it. She had tried to forget about it, throwing herself into her work, and with the Walsh file soaking up every free minute out of court, she had been reasonably successful. Watching Brad with someone else would be bad enough, but having to do it in some lavish mansion, which Brad insisted on calling his ‘shack’ in some perverse rich person’s ironic humour, set her stomach revolving in a ball of nerves.

‘Sure. See you then,’ she said coolly, ensuring nothing of her inner turmoil showed on her face.

The next day, Georgia briefly considered faking some forty-eight hour flu bug to avoid driving up to Brad’s so-called shack. But if she did that, she risked major decisions being made by the three other partners without her. She hadn’t come this far just to be sidelined and treated liked the junior partner, or worse, some kind of feminine mascot.

Georgia reduced her speed, turned down the radio, and pulled her sunglasses on to the top of her head as she drove along the dress circle of houses that flanked Caston Bay. Caston was a coastal town a couple of hours from the CBD where the rich came to play. She expected to be completely out of her element at Brad’s holiday house, just as she had felt in his penthouse, and she wasn’t looking forward to making small talk with Dayton and Llewellyn’s wives either.

Although she had never met them before, she had seen them coming and going from their respective husbands’ offices enough times to have them pegged as ageing trophy wives plucked from the wealthy Eastern Suburbs. Then there was Brad’s ‘plus one’ who would likely be some society bimbo whose only difference from the likes of Caro Marsden and Ruby Walsh would be the years on the clock, and the number of facelifts.

Suck it up, Georgia.

This was what was expected of a partner in a successful law firm, and if she wanted the contacts and client base that went with it, she would just have to grin and bear it.

And there was still the issue of the addiction centre proposal. Now that she knew Brad was on the board, she might not be up to what Caro had alleged, but she needed to make sure she maintained a positive relationship with him.

So play nicely, Georgia.

The trouble was she couldn’t remember the last time she had played nicely. She only knew how to play one way, and that was to survive and, if at all possible, to win.

Brad’s beach house was number forty-six. Thirty-eight through forty-four were huge modern architectural statements, bordered by six foot high security fences; the sort of houses Georgia had been expecting. Stopping outside number forty-six, however, she fumbled in the glove compartment to recheck the address that Miriam had written on a post-it note.

This couldn’t be it.

A single storeyed brick and plaster bungalow, it was flanked by a low picket style fence in the front, and a well-used access strip to the beach ran down the left side. Only the right hand boundary was demarcated by a high fence separating it from its neighbour, a massive faux Mediterranean style white monolith of a mansion to the right.

She checked again. Number forty-six was right. This was it.

Unsure what to wear to a Spencer ‘barbeque’, and not wanting to look shabby or be outdone by Brad’s date, she had gone for a flattering black halter neck cotton dress with a string of pearls. She might have to turn up single, but that didn’t mean she had to look pitiable into the bargain, but now, looking at the modest home, she unhooked the pearls and threw them into the glove box beside the post-it.

With its absolute beachfront position, the block of land would have been worth a six figure sum on its own, but the house was completely out of place amongst its neighbours. Walking up to the front door, which was resplendent with a patch of peeling paint, the real estate speak phrase of ‘do up or demolish’ came to mind. Georgia put down the overnight bag she had packed, took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

‘Glad you could make it, Georgia, welcome to my beach hut,’ Brad said unselfconsciously, after he had wrenched the sticking door to get it open past halfway.

He hugged her and gave her two polite air kisses. The sensation of being pressed against his hard body coaxed hers into life. Turning her head sideways to avoid taking a face plant right into his chest, she caught a whiff of his all too familiar cologne. The scent of freshly cut sapling came with a memory that almost knocked her feet out from under her, and she resisted the urge to grasp on to him for support.

Mercifully, he released her to take the overnight bag and she stepped back before her hormones fired up any more and drove her headlong into trouble.

Feminine laughter emanated from a room behind them, reminding her that they were not alone, and she shook herself out of the last of her little daydream.

He’s out of bounds, and anyway he’s with someone, remember?

Brad looked back over his shoulder.

‘The Daytons and Llewellyns are already here, but let me show you to your room first.’

In contrast to the scruffy exterior, the inside of the house had been redecorated in a modern beach house aesthetic. Bare boards and whitewashed walls started in the hallway and continued into the bedroom. The retro furniture had been stripped back to natural wood and the bed was a minimalist slat bed. Nothing about the style of the beach house meshed with what she had seen of the rich decoration in Brad’s penthouse.

‘No ensuites, I’m afraid, but there are two bathrooms.’

Brad pointed to a pile of fluffy towels at the end of the bed.

He set down her small suitcase, and she noticed the faded t-shirt, moulded to his toned abdominals, was fraying at the neck and around the sleeves. His lean powerful legs were partially covered by long board shorts, stopping just above the knee, which likewise sported a couple of small holes from wear.

Ditching the pearls had been the right move.

‘You look lovely by the way, Georgia.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, trying to will the heat that was marching up the back of her neck to pivot right back on around and down again. It wasn’t so much the compliment that was making her blush as it was the awkwardness of standing beside a bed with Brad, her mind flooding with memories of the last time they had been in a bedroom together. She looked around the room searching for something to make a neutral comment about, a picture, a lamp, anything, but before she could come up with something to say, Brad motioned for her to follow him back out into the hallway.

‘The others are in bedrooms further down, the room next to yours is mine, and the one directly across the hall is your closest bathroom,’ he called back over his shoulder, carrying on into the living room.

After the obligatory introductions to the wives, an older man who had been working in the adjoining kitchen pressed a glass of sparkling wine into her hand. She looked around for a place to sit. With two full sized sofas occupied by John Dayton and his wife Beverley, and Roger Llewellyn and his wife Vera, there appeared nowhere free.

‘Here, come and sit beside me, Georgia. I promise I won’t bite.’

Brad patted the space beside him on a smaller two-seater. Make that a one-and-half-seater, she thought as she sat down and her thigh brushed his. He didn’t flinch and with little space to move, she was trapped against him. The heat emanating from his leg travelled through her thigh, circulating outwards and causing an unexpected sensation higher up.

She looked around, but there were no other guests. It seemed as if Brad didn’t have a date for the weekend after all. Her head said it didn’t matter, while her body, stupidly happy that she didn’t have to suffer seeing him with someone new, hummed an entirely different tune.

‘So what’s the story behind this place, Brad? It’s got a stunning view, but I’m sure it wasn’t what any of us were expecting as the beach house of the son of the late king of Sydney construction.’ Llewellyn piped up, asking what Georgia, and probably everyone else, was thinking.

Brad stretched out and leaned back, so that he was pressed even more tightly against her.

‘This is where it all begun. When Dad completed his apprenticeship he started his own building company and saved up for this place and all of the land around it. Then he applied to have the zoning laws changed and when that eventually came through he was able to subdivide the block into twenty plots. He built one house to sell in order to make the money to build the next and so on. All the houses started out looking like this, but most have now either been replaced, or modified and extended so much you wouldn’t know.

His guests gave polite smiles, nevertheless confused as to why the house had not been given more of a facelift like its neighbours. Brad shrugged, stood up, and headed for a set of French doors that opened on to a deck facing the beach.

‘See this first mark here,’ Brad pointed to a gouge a couple of feet up off the floor on the doorframe. It was the first of several other horizontal marks. ‘That is how tall I was when Dad sold his first house.’

Imagining Brad as a toddler melted something solid in Georgia’s chest. It was hard to visualise anyone as powerful as Brad as ever having been innocent or vulnerable, but seeing him like this, in understated surroundings, it was if he had been laid bare. The pride in his voice as he talked about the oldest shabbiest house in the street caught something in Georgia’s throat, and she quickly took a gulp of her wine rather than analyse what the feelings might be about.

‘Oh, and I’m sure you would have been the most darling baby too. What do you think, Georgia?’ Beverley Dayton asked.

Georgia took another long, deliberate sip of her drink, giving her time to think. She was about to deflect Beverley’s question by saying he was probably a little devil when Vera Llewellyn answered for her.

‘Cute as a button — I’ll bet he started charming the ladies in kindergarten.’

Brad rolled his eyes and laughed the comment off.

‘Alright men, what do you say to making fire and charring some fish?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Llewellyn said, climbing to his feet first, with Dayton following after him, trailing Brad outside through the double doors to a barbeque out on the deck.

‘What about you, Georgia?’ Beverley asked as the men went outside. ‘Do you have a husband?’

‘No, I’m still single.’

‘Are you? Well, how fortuitous. Bradley would be an excellent catch,’ Vera chimed in.

‘I couldn’t. We work together.’ Georgia shook her head.

‘Work together?’ The two women exchanged a look. ‘How do you think we met our husbands?’

Georgia wanted to point out that it was different when a partnership was at stake, but that would have ruffled the women’s feathers. If they met their husbands at work, she guessed they must have been secretaries. The paralegals and legal secretaries kept the firm running, and the loss of a good executive assistant was always a blow, but it was hardly equal to the dissolution of a partnership.

Instead she took the bait.

‘How did you meet your husbands?’

‘Let me tell you, working together didn’t stop John. He practically chased me around his desk didn’t he, Vera? Not that I wasn’t happy to be caught,’ Beverley said.

Vera pointed an accusing finger at the other woman.

‘That’s not quite the way I recall it. You lured him into the stationery room at the office Christmas party, as I remember.’

The women cackled in unison.

‘This would be the perfect place to lure Bradley.’ Vera swept her hand out towards the golden beach that came right up to the veranda and the waves crashing beyond it.

Watching Brad working the barbeque against the backdrop of the sparkling blue ocean, Georgia hardly needed a reminder about the perfect views on offer. She silently conceded that if she was planning to make a move on Brad, this would be the place to do it.

But she wasn’t. Even with the added incentive of making Brad more amenable to supporting her addiction centre proposal, it wasn’t worth the risk to her career. If she and Brad got together and then broke up, as the partner with the lower earning capacity it would be her Dayton and Llewellyn would be asking to leave.

Georgia knocked back the rest of her drink, and keeping half of her attention on the older women’s conversation, managed to maintain one eye on what the men were doing outside.

As Brad turned to John and Roger from time to time to listen or say something, she couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about, and if business decisions were being made without her. Irritated to be stuck with the wives, she kept smiling through gritted teeth, asking Beverley about her family. It was an act of desperation to keep the conversation going but one that struck on the woman’s favourite topic of conversation. Beverley was still wittering on about the achievements of her various grandchildren when Brad came back into the living room, tongs in one hand and a plate of cooked seafood in the other.

Having gathered everyone in the dining area, the elderly caterer seated the guests, placing Georgia at one end of the long rustic timber table, looking straight down at Brad at the other end. It was strange seeing him so at home in such comparatively humble surroundings. How did this Brad fit with the one who lived in an ostentatious penthouse, and owned a healthy chunk of Sydney’s corporate real estate?

The food was pleasant; typical barbie fare. The dessert consisted of shop-bought Pavlova and berries, and all of the wine was moderately priced plonk that she could have picked up from her local bottle store.

This relaxed Brad, serving up overdone, barbequed food to his guests, and topping up everyone’s glasses like any regular host, could have been the typical Aussie bloke next door. He was a totally different man to the designer suited, gemstone studded Brad who arrived at the office each day.

After the meal Brad pushed back his chair and walked over to an oak dresser. Opening one of the drawers, he pulled out a box of cigars and a bottle of spirits.

‘Apologies ladies, but we’re going to retire to the veranda to talk shop for a while.’

Georgia’s hackles rose. She wasn’t about to be sidelined again.

‘I assume you mean for me to join you as well?’ She hadn’t meant to say it with quite so much ‘tone’, but the two couples’ heads lurched together in unison like spectators at a tennis match, first towards her and then at Brad, waiting for his reaction.

‘Of course, Georgia. You are one of the partners after all.’

‘Good, because I wouldn’t want to be excluded from any more decisions.’

‘I can assure you no decisions have been made without all of the partners present, including you.’

‘Then what were you talking about before out there?’

She jerked her hand, palm upwards in the direction of the veranda.

‘The usual things men talk about around a barbeque: sport, cars, the state of the share market, but so far we haven’t discussed anything to do with the long-term future of the partnership.’

His response was cool yet pleasant. Something about Brad’s unfailing manners in the face of conflict always managed to annoy the hell out of her.

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

There was an awkward silence. Roger cleared his throat as if he was about to say something and then thought better of it. The others looked down at the table.

‘Good, so that’s decided then, Georgia will be joining us on the veranda,’ Brad said finally. ‘I must apologise in advance though, Georgia, because while the cigars are optional, the aged single malt and the mosquitoes are compulsory, and with all of us out there, Vera and Beverley will get to eat all the chocolate.’

‘Oh we don’t mind at all, do we Vera? It will give us more time to catch up,’ Beverley said, smoothing things over further.

Relieved smiles broke out around the table. It was a good save and she should have been grateful, but social humiliation of any kind cut too close to the bone. She clenched her napkin into a ball and forced a smile.

‘Petit-fours, ladies?’ The caterer was at the table proffering a large mixed box of truffles and mini-chocolates. It gave her the perfect opportunity to escape.

Out on the veranda she sat in a director’s chair, one of several set out around a large teak outdoor table.

Brad took up a chair beside her, while Roger and John lingered inside, twittering with their wives; still gossiping, no doubt, about the exchange they had just witnessed.

Well, let them gossip. Dayton and Llewellyn had brought Brad into this partnership without consulting her, and she had every right to be tetchy.

‘Are you okay, Georgia?’

Brad took up a chair beside her and patted her arm. She hadn’t expected his touch to be comforting, but it had the effect of releasing the tension that had built up inside her and she didn’t try to shrug him off.

‘Yes, sorry. I don’t like being excluded from things, that’s all.’

‘So I noticed. Whisky?’ Not waiting for a response he handed her a glass, pouring a good inch of the tawny liquid in the bottom.

‘I do get what it feels like to be left out. Not excluded and whispered about in the way you would have experienced, of course, but ignored, yes, I get that.’

Georgia had never told anyone how much the sniggers and comments whispered from behind raised hands at the exclusive high school she attended, at law school, and even now to some extent around court or at formal bar dinners, hurt her. But Brad somehow understood that was how it had been for her. She wanted to ask him what he meant about him being ignored too, but before she had a chance, Roger and John came outside, pulling up chairs opposite.

Roger began spraying his arms and legs with insect repellent that he had brought with him, while John produced a briefcase and handed around papers setting out an order of business. The agenda listed all of the partner’s names — including hers. She shrank back into the fabric of the oversized chair and sipped the whisky; heat scalding her throat, mirroring the social burn she had just inflicted on herself.

The others had intended to include her all along.

Brad smacked at an imaginary mosquito against his head.

What an idiot.

Georgia was withdrawn now, slumped back into her chair, speaking only when spoken to, but not actively taking part in the discussions.

He should have made it clear that it was always his intention the cigars and scotch session would include her. It was meant as a convenient way to break off from Dayton and Llewellyn’s gossipy wives, though it was a damn shame they had to endure the outdoors, even on an unseasonably balmy autumn night, complete with biting insects, to make their escape complete.

He passed Georgia the insect repellent, and she sprayed it on absently.

He tried to concentrate as Dayton and Llewellyn gave a summary of the financial position of the practice, going into unnecessary detail about the partnership’s overheads, liabilities and the current state of cash flow, but his attention kept straying back to Georgia.

She looked stunning. Her black dress, tied up around her neck, set off her delicate shoulders, the dim outside lighting bounced off her honey coloured hair and her eyes simmered deep in thought.

He wished Dayton and Llewellyn would push off to bed, but they were still only halfway through the agenda and both ageing men seemed to have plenty of life left in them yet.

‘Now, starting with the priorities for the family law team,’ John said, introducing the first item of any weight on the agenda. ‘Roger and I have talked, and we both feel that Bradley joining the practice is good timing. We would like to see a repositioning of our emphasis to target the high-value and celebrity markets, and progressively divest ourselves of our lower value clients.’

Georgia, who had been leaning back in her chair, sat upright, gripping the tabletop until her knuckles gleamed white.

‘Since when has the quality of legal advice provided by our firm been governed by the depth of the client’s pockets? I’m not going to turn people away just because they can’t produce a postcode for the Eastern Suburbs.’

John Dayton’s grey moustache twitched.

‘No-one’s suggesting anything unethical like turning people away on the basis of ability to pay, Georgia, but if our client list is already full with more complex matters, then it will be legitimate for us to take a pass on the low value work. You, of all people, should see the benefit in that.’

Brad winced. Dayton’s reminder to Georgia of her unequal standing as a non-equity partner within the firm wasn’t a great idea, coming so soon after her self-induced humiliation at the dinner table.

‘Low value work or lower value human beings?’ Georgia’s retort came swift and fierce, as Brad had expected.

‘Before we get too far on with this, gentlemen,’ Brad said, wading in, hoping to calm the waters before Georgia got any more upset, ‘Can I say that to a certain extent I agree with Georgia, although for different reasons. Low value can equal high volume work, which leads to technical skill and experience.’ Georgia took a sharp breath and opened her mouth to speak, but he gave her no leeway to interject, anticipating what, in her already piqued state, her likely objection would be. ‘Not that I’m suggesting that Georgia doesn’t have either experience or knowledge, but variety refreshes our skills and keeps the work interesting. Take it from one who often gets bogged down in a handful of complex cases at a time.’

Dayton shrugged.

‘Let’s leave things as they are then, for the time being.’

Llewellyn looked at his watch.

‘Since we’re not going to progress these discussions any further tonight, I think I might turn in. I suggest we also postpone the last item regarding increasing our office space until we see how the additional revenue from the family section stacks up against the expense of taking on more square footage.’

Brad swore a silent oath. Llewellyn was taking one last stab at Georgia, making her regaining an office conditional on her increasing the revenue from her client list, and ensuring that he got the last word in the process.

‘Why don’t I have a look at the Spencer portfolio and see what’s available? I’m sure Spencer Corp could offer the firm a lease on very favourable terms.’

‘Mates rates?’ Llewellyn asked, smelling a deal.

‘Yes, if you like.’

Brad risked a look at Georgia out of the corner of his eye, worried he was going too far, using his Spencer Corp ‘silver spoon’ resources as leverage to turn the situation around, but her expression was unreadable.

John Dayton stood up.

‘Well that sounds promising, and on that positive note, I’m happy to call it a night as well.’

‘Goodnight all.’

Georgia went to lift herself out of her chair, pressing down on the wooden armrests, but Brad lightly gripped her arm, indicating she should stay. The satin feel of her warm downy skin was a reminder of what she had felt like beside him that night at the penthouse. She shot him a quizzical look that resounded through his abdomen.

Damn.

He had underestimated how difficult it was going to be to sit in this ‘look but don’t touch’ hellhole he had excavated himself into.

‘Thanks for backing me up with those two,’ Georgia said, once both the older partners were well inside and out of earshot.

‘Yes, I thought the old farts would never run out of steam and take themselves off to bed.’

‘You shouldn’t call them that.’ Georgia’s words were censorious, but her tone was anything but. She laughed, the outdoor lighting reflecting in her eyes so that when they danced they looked like white capped waves.

‘Why not? That’s what they are. I bet you had as much fun talking to old Gladys and Doris in there earlier as I had making small talk about cricket and comparing the value of the Australian dollar against the greenback with their husbands.’

She laughed again, much harder this time, dislodging a blonde lock from behind her ear.

‘I am sorry that my coming into the firm has shaken everything up for you, and just when you’ve made partner too.’

He reached over to wind her hair back into place. Sliding his hand down the side of her face, he stroked her cheek with his thumb. He hoped it would be enough for her to jump the divide and kiss him. It would have to be; he didn’t dare do any more.

Brad’s touch was an electric charge that sent Georgia’s hormones colliding like a bunch of excitable atoms as the realisation hit her.

He wanted her.

So why was he mucking about gazing into her eyes instead of jumping her?

‘So are you going to hurry up and kiss me?’

In one swift movement he withdrew his hand.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

She wrinkled her face as she tried to work him out. He obviously wanted to spark this thing between them back up again, but he had put himself in a professional position where that would be near impossible, and now he wouldn’t even so much as kiss her?

‘Georgia, you have to make the first move.’

His voice was matter of fact as if he had just stated some irrefutable aspect of common law, and yet she knew Brad was right. Dayton and Llewellyn were already salivating piglets at the trough at the thought of cornering the celebrity break-up market. If she couldn’t handle working with Brad, she would have to leave the firm. Without a partnership track record it was terrible timing for her to be trying to break into another firm. If Brad left, Dayton and Llewellyn would forever blame her for the derailment of their gravy train.

He sounded confident, and while his features gave no discernible expression, his eyes exuded the same intense vulnerability as when he was talking about the history of the beach house. Right now, Brad Spencer, who usually wanted for nothing, wanted something he couldn’t automatically have.

Her.

Brad wanted poor disadvantaged downtown girl Georgia. It was thrilling and sexy all at the same time.

Part of her wanted to pull herself out of the canvas chair that was now ensnaring her, and haul him by the hand down onto the sand. The other part of her was freaking terrified.

After barely a second’s worth of consideration the terrified part won and she bolted back inside, almost running through the now empty living room, down the hall, and into her bedroom. Once in the comparative safety of her own room, she shut the door and leaned back against it until her heart stopped leaping out of her chest, and her legs were steady enough that she could stand up straight without structural assistance.

How had this happened? No man had ever gotten to her before. She almost wished one had, because then she wouldn’t be faced with this decision; a choice that Brad had foisted all onto her. She fumbled on either side of the doorframe and found the light switch. The harsh light bounced off the white walls and brought her crashing back to reality. She had worked her butt off to get where she was now. She couldn’t throw it all away on a man, not even one as hot as Brad Spencer, and not even, as Caro had alleged, for the purpose of securing funding support for the addiction centre.

She unzipped her bag and found her nightdress. Not bothering to remove her make-up, she slipped off her dress, shoes, and underwear and pulled the nightgown over her head. The last thing she wanted was to run into anyone on the way to the bathroom, least of all Brad.

Turning on the bedside lamp, she walked back across the room and flicked off the main light, but the moment she got into bed she was too hot. She pulled off the throw and then, when that didn’t cool her down sufficiently, she thrust back the doona, but the dank humid air was still suffocating.

She stuck out her bottom lip and forced all the air out of her lungs, fanning it upwards onto her face.

How had someone as rich and powerful as Brad not yet discovered the miracles of retrofitted aircon and ensuite plumbing?

She pulled back the curtain and then the mosquito screen to open the window, but facing away from the beach, there was no relief from the light sea breeze.

Unable to sleep, her brain replayed all the reasons why she had done the right thing beating a hasty retreat to her room, and why she should never ever sleep with Brad Spencer again.

And then it started listing all the reasons why she should.

She knew where his room was. He had made sure of that, she now realised, with the comment he had made over his shoulder about where everything was when he was showing her around. At the time it had seemed like an idle remark, but now she knew better. He had obviously planned this so-called strategy weekend to create a scenario where they might end up back in bed together.

But then, how could sleeping together again make things any worse? They could hardly get more naked than they had before, and it’s not like she was going to do anything really dumb, like fall in love with him. And then there was the addiction centre. With Caro’s attitude to her proposal, unless she did something to reweight the scales in her favour it was unlikely it would ever happen.

Why shouldn’t she?

She tossed and turned, with the pros and cons slugging it out. Images of this new Brad, all casual and relaxed, kept screening in her mind, running like a series of movie clips every time she closed her eyes. Her hand wandered down her thigh, poised there, undecided.

She needed relief. But why resort to self-help measures when Brad was ready, willing, probably in the next room by now, and oh so mind-blowingly able?

That decided it.

Brad was responsible for working her up into this state. He could damn well be the one to do something about it, and if she needed any further justification then there was always the greater good of re-establishing intimate relations with the man who could help bring her dream project to fruition. Something Caro thought she was doing already anyway.

She switched the lamp on, got out of bed and stomped back into the hall. Feeling along the wall in the darkened hallway in the direction Brad had indicated, she slipped into his room, closing the door behind her. His own bedside light was still on, and he was sitting up in bed, enticingly bare chested, sipping water from a glass. A single droplet had fallen from the glass, beading on his chest, sliding down towards his nipple.

‘I need you to…’ she faltered.

One side of his mouth rose in a questioning half smile.

‘Pleasure me?’ he suggested.

‘I was going for a much shorter, vernacular expression, but pleasure will do.’

For a split second his eyes opened wide, then he laughed, and flicked back the sheet.